“Tag them out. Hold the score. Win the game.”
“Yes, Coach!” we repeat, louder.
He holds out his fist. “Wolfpack on three.”
We all extend our mitts into the center of the huddle. As a group, we chant, “One… two… three…WOLFPACK!”
My head hangs low as I walk back to the pitcher’s mound. Restless energy radiates through my every nerve ending. Taking my position, I stare at the dirt caked on my cleats. There’s so much pressure resting on my shoulders, it’s difficult to straighten them back to full height.
The crowd has gone silent, waiting for the game to resume. Waiting for me to throw again. I can feel the weight of their eyes, the density of their anticipation thickening the warm summer air. The sun is starting to set, basking the entire stadium in gold. Behind me, in the outfield, the scoreboard looms menacingly, an irrefutable reminder of the stakes.
HOME: 7
AWAY: 6
Final inning.
Zero outs.
Bases loaded.
I grit my teeth and try to shut out the background noise. Ryan Snyder’s smug presence at first base. Coach’s furrowed brow. My teammates watching from the dugout. The scouts lined up along the fence. My parents’ worried faces in the crowd.
It all fades into a distant hum.
But no matter what I do, I can’t quite eradicate the noise inside my soul. I can’t erase the constant feeling that my life has spiraled so far out of control, I might never get it on track again. It’s the sort of distraction no amount of deep breathing can soothe.
My grip tightens on the ball. My eyes narrow on Chris’ mitt behind home plate. I’m about to throw when, in the hush that’s fallen over the field, I suddenly hear it — a voice, ringing out into the night, clear as the water in the shallows of the cove beyond the boathouse.
“YOU’VE GOT THIS, ARCHER!”
My head snaps up, whipping toward the bleachers. I scan the crowd. It takes a minute, but I find her. Everyone else is sitting down, but she’s on her feet, standing tall in the front row. Her long blonde hair hangs loose around her shoulders. Her legs stretch on for a mile in those skimpy cut-off shorts. And her eyes…
They’re locked on mine.
She’s here.
She came.
Even after I was such an asshole.
Even though I don’t deserve it.
When our gazes meet, a slow smile spreads across her face — one reassuring enough to warm me from the inside out. One that seeps into the marrow of my bones and undercuts every bit of anxiety churning through my system.
“YOU CAN DO THIS!” Jo yells across the distance, not seeming to care that the people around her are turning to stare. I know how much she hates to be the center of attention. But that doesn’t stop her tonight. “SHOW ‘EM WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF, REYES!”
God, I miss her.
She’s standing right there, but I miss her so much I can barely breathe. My throat feels like it’s about to close up. I can’t yell back to her; I manage a nod, so she knows I’m listening.
She nods back, her smile stretching wider. Beside her, the Wadell twins shoot to their feet, two platinum bookends.
“Ah-woooo!” they howl in unison. “Go Archer! Go Wolfpack!”
Before long, the entire Exeter section of the bleachers is cheering. Howling like wolves. The sound swells as everyone joins in. I’m sure my parents are somewhere in the mob, screaming their heads off, but I can’t take my eyes off Jo long enough to look.
“AH-WOOO!” she howls, loud as anyone.